Chapter 4
OLIVIA
I didn’t say I can’t handle it. I am handling it.
All. Of. It. All. The. Fucking. Time.
Now just trust the process.
—Olivia’s Secret Thoughts
“Are you seriously going to do this?” Pretty sure the last-minute trip to Tiffany’s in the hotel sobered Serena up enough to decide mothering me sounded like a good idea. Not sure how long it’s going to last though. “I mean, come on, Liv. This place smells like desperation and dead flowers.”
“It’s not a funeral home, Serena.” Maybe I’d sound a little more confident if I wasn’t currently staring at my reflection in a cracked mirror inside what I could call a dingy bathroom, but that would be giving it a prettier description than it actually deserves.
“Olivia.” With two hands on my shoulders, she moves behind me, her reflection distorted in the broken mirror.
“Come on. You can’t marry this guy. You don’t even know him.
And you definitely don’t like him. Hate sex I could get on board with, but marrying a guy you basically can’t stand sounds like a pretty bad idea.
Unless I’m wrong and you’re secretly crushing on him.
Wait—did you have some secret torrid affair I don’t know about? ”
I shake my head. “Pot meet kettle.”
“First—you knew. So don’t go there.” Her nose crinkles in confusion, and I take back my earlier thoughts about her sobering up. “And second—are you agreeing or disagreeing?”
I turn to face her, then reach out and steady her as she teeters on her Jimmy Choos.
“I’m agreeing with you. I don’t like Logan Adler.
That might actually be the genius in this plan.
My firm wants me settled. But I’m not looking for a husband and children.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why they want me to have a family.
As far as I’m concerned, that would just be a reason to split my attention, not give them more of it.
This way, I can do it all, have the husband, look settled, and make partner.
And because I’m benevolent like that, I can even help Logan with his custody issues.
Then once it’s all done, we can go our separate ways. No fuss. No muss. It works.”
“Benevolent.” She nods. “Sure. And marrying the guy who called you out for being a bitch on Sports Center is part of the genius? Aren’t you worried you’re going to want to kill him in his sleep or something?”
“Wanting to and actually doing it are two very different things.” I tuck my lip gloss back in my bag and fluff my hair.
If I’m about to walk down the aisle to Logan Adler and some Elvis impersonator wedding officiant, I’m going to look damn good doing it.
“Now,”—I link my pinky with hers the way we’ve done since we were little—“are you going to walk me down the aisle?”
“Your dad is going to kill you and me, you know that, right?” she groans, and she’s not wrong.
“Think bigger,” I murmur as we open the door.
“Nope. I refuse to think about what your mom is going to do when she finds out.” She drops my pinky and presses her palm to mine, lacing our fingers. “Love you, Livvie.”
“Love you too, Barbie. Now let’s get this shit done.”
I cling to my bravado like that bitch is the lifeline keeping my head above water as the tides rapidly rise while Serena and I walk down the purple velvet aisle to “Can’t Help Falling In Love.”
Damn. I used to like that song. Pretty sure after this, I’ll never want to hear it again.
Logan and Elvis stand together, waiting at the end. Logan’s cocky grin grows as I come to a stop next to him.
God, I hate that grin. I hate his stupidly handsome face too. But at least if I’m going to marry this jerk, he’s not the worst thing in the world to look at. This will go down in history as either the best or worst idea I’ve ever had.
“Damn,” Elvis half sings, half groans. Both give me the icks. “Ain’t you a tight little hunk of burnin’ love?”
“Hey, buddy,” Logan snaps as Elvis’s gaze settles on my boobs. “Eyes up here if you want to keep them in your fucking head.”
I blink at my soon-to-be husband, wishing I found that a little less hot, then at Elvis as he grumbles. That’s when I see the marriage license on the leopard-print podium. They really doubled down on the tacky theme.
Elvis takes a step back, and Logan closes the distance between us. “A little late to panic now, Olive.”
“I’m not panicking, Adler.” Okay, maybe just a little. But I’ll die on that mountain before I admit it to anyone, least of all him.
“You’re breathing like you’re being hunted for sport, Olivia. Don’t you come from a family of superstar athletes?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I snap, fire flaming my cheeks because yes, I do in fact come from a family of athletes. And maybe I’m a little self-conscious about the fact that I’m not one of them.
“We’re going to have to work on that stamina.” This grin is less cocky and more devilish, and I like it even less than the last one. At least I want to like it less. In truth, it’s hotter.
I narrow my eyes. “In. Your. Dreams.”
“Nightmares, maybe.” Logan takes my hand in his.
“Finally. Something we can agree on.”
“If y’all could hold the foreplay until after the I do’s, this might go a little faster,” Rafe chokes behind us as Elvis clears his throat.
“Are we ready?”
I stare, anger and embarrassment coursing through my veins as Logan coughs, covering his laugh.
Unbelievable.
The chapel suddenly feels small . . . and warm . . . and real.
A fake floral arch frames an oversized, screen-printed banner with Graceland gracing the material behind Elvis as he sways on his feet, looking like he may have drunk as much as we did, waiting for an answer.
I should walk away.
Admit this wasn’t my best idea and cut my losses.
But . . . what if it was?
What if it is?
Logan reaches for my hand before I can spiral. He dips his face down to mine. The warmth of his fingers wrapping around mine steals the breath from my lungs. “There she is.”
I drag my eyes up to meet his and want to be annoyed by how calm he looks. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You’re kinda cute when you’re freaking the fuck out, Olive.”
“Call me Olive one more time and I will stab you with my shoe,” I warn, straightening my spine as his mouth twitches. But when his thumb brushes gently over mine, I’ll be damned if my heart doesn’t start racing.
Elvis hums some kind of off-key tune, and we both turn his way. “Did we write our own vows, kids?”
Right. Vows. Shit. “We are not writing our own vows.”
“Aww, Olive. Scared you’ll confess your undying love for me?”
“More like scared I’ll give in to the urge to murder you.” I. Hate. Him. “And honestly, orange isn’t my color. So . . . Let’s get this over with.”
“So romantic,” Logan taunts.
“You first, Romeo.” Elvis nods toward Logan, who looks entirely too entertained and amused with himself for his own good.
“I, Logan Adler, take you, Olive—”
“Olivia—” I groan.
“St. James. I promise to annoy the shit out of you daily for as long as legally possible.”
My hand flies up to cover my laugh before I can stop myself, and the bastard’s crooked grin grows wide enough for a dimple to pop deep in his left cheek.
Nope. That’s not hot either.
“And to remind you to loosen up and thaw the whole ice-queen thing every once in a while, because despite your terrifying personality, even you deserve to have a little fun.”
“I have fun,” I argue.
Elvis wipes a fake tear from his eye, and Serena giggles behind us.
Traitor.
“Your turn, little lady.”
I guess little lady is better than kids.
I exhale slowly, focusing on Logan’s eyes and not his smile.
They’re not even just beautiful baby blue.
They have a hint of something else. Something brighter.
Nearly turquoise. And for some unknown reason, that pisses me off even more.
He does not get to have beautifully complex eyes.
Nothing about him is allowed to be complex.
Fuck that. “I, Olivia Kingston-St. James, promise to not stab you, Logan Adler, with my shoe or a kitchen knife—”
Rafe coughs, and I turn and give him the finger.
“Fine. Or any knife, for that matter, for the foreseeable future. Even when you say or do stupid things.”
“Like?” Logan asks.
I shrug. “Like breathing or speaking or not listening to me when I tell you how to renegotiate your contract.”
He grins, and it’s less cocky and slightly more charming this time, and suddenly, I’m smiling too. Which is mildly horrifying.
Elvis launches into the rest of the ceremony as my brain catches up to exactly where I am and exactly what I’m doing.
This is insane.
Reckless.
Possibly careless . . .
And the chances I’m going to regret it tomorrow are sky fucking high. But as Elvis announces, “You may kiss the bride,” I look up at my brand-new husband and freeze. Because Logan doesn’t look like he thinks this is a stupid idea.
Fuck me.
He looks like he wants to devour me.
His hand slides slowly around the back of my head, calloused fingers digging into my hair. “Last chance to run, Olive.”
My stomach somersaults. “I don’t run.”
“We’re going to have to work on that too.”
Before he gets a chance to seal this ridiculous deal with a kiss, I press my lips to his cheek. “The fuck we are, husband.”
Rafe and Serena clap behind us, and I turn to see my cousin, clearly concerned and yet possibly amused. “Congratulations,” she whispers, definitely questioning whether she should be congratulating me or committing me. “Umm . . . where to now?”
“The bar,” I announce looking between her, Rafe, and my new husband. “I think I need a drink.”
“Livvy . . .”
Why does Serena’s voice hurt?
“Liv . . .”
And why the hell is she shoving what feels like her elbow into my back?
“Olivia, I swear to God, if you don’t turn off your goddamned alarm, I’m going to throw your phone out the window.”
“It’s Vegas, little Kingston. The windows don’t open.”
Fuck me.
That voice.
Vegas.